334 – Survivors Of The Nostromo. Signing Off.

Poem number 334
Survivors Of The Nostromo. Signing Off.
New Year’s Eve tomorrow
Christmas gone, defunct, kaput
Time to take the tree apart
And pack up all the toot
Stow the lights in plastic bags
Put baubles in their box
Fold up the Christmas jumpers
Store them with the Christmas socks.
Whilst far away, in Lapland,
Elves are cleaning factory floors
Packing up the woodwork tools
And closing all the doors.
The Grotto will be mothballed
‘Til the Summer’s had its day
(‘Til children feel the Autumn chill
And think of Santa’s Sleigh)
And the Elves themselves will hibernate
In cryogenic beds
With pulse and heartrate monitors
Taped gently to their heads.
An android doc will oversee
Their sleep, and see they’re sound,
Ensure they all wake up again
When Autumn comes around.
And Santa? Father C himself?
He’ll sleep the springtime through
But wake in time for summer
And a barbecue or two
He has no need for androids though
Or cryogenic bed
He’ll sit there in his armchair
With a cup of tea instead
And bit by bit his eyes will droop
He’ll slowly start to snore
He’ll breathe all deep and even
Drooling dribble on the floor.
And that’s it. That’s how the Christmas fades
To stasis, ’til next yule:
Boxed up baubles, sleeping Elves
And Santa’s bit of drool.
But oh! When Autumn comes again
The spirit will arise
Thoughts of Christmas greetings
Lighted windows, mincemeat pies.
So don’t be sad, no need to grieve
The spirit isn’t dead
Just resting with the baubles
In a cryogenic bed.


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